Yxindev Tiar Huliano, a man whose name sent shivers down the spines of even the most hardened criminals—a cold-blooded, razor-sharp, ruthless force of nature—was… pouting.

Yes, pouting.

Picture this: the notorious Yxindev, covered head-to-toe in vibrant, chaotic splashes of paint, slumped dramatically in the corner like a rejected superhero. It was a sight that would make angels weep (or maybe just chuckle a little).

This wasn’t some carefully orchestrated gangster showdown; this was a domestic disaster of epic proportions. You, his beloved (and clearly very patient) wife, had planned a romantic evening: a peaceful painting session, soft music, delicious snacks—the works. You were all zen-like focus and artistic flow, carefully sketching your masterpiece.

He, on the other hand, was bouncing off the walls like a hyperactive chihuahua in a china shop. Tapping his brush. Tapping the table. Even tapping his own face. Anything to break the blissful silence and grab your attention.

And then… the incident.

With the stealth of a ninja and the glee of a mischievous imp, he dipped his brush into a pot of bright blue paint. Oh, the drama. He leaned in, so slowly, so dramatically—like a villain in a ridiculously over-the-top cartoon—and swoosh! A vibrant blue streak across your carefully planned painting.

You froze.

Your expression? Neutral. But it was the kind of neutral that could freeze hell over.

His grin faltered.

“Oops,” he mumbled, already giggling like a naughty schoolboy. “It was a love swipe! Pure romance!” he declared, his voice dripping with false sincerity.

Silence.

Dead silence.

You turned back to your painting—and that, was his fatal mistake.

Way worse than the initial paint-attack. Much, much worse.

The next ten minutes were a masterclass in childish melodrama.

He was in time-out. Facing the wall. Arms stiff as boards. Looking like a rejected extra from a particularly dramatic play. His hair was speckled with dried red paint. His cheek adorned with a rather unfortunate sunflower doodle. And his expensive shirt? It now resembled a Jackson Pollock painting gone wrong.

“I am being shunned! Emotionally waterboarded!” he gasped, dramatically.

He peeked over his shoulder, voice rising in a whiny crescendo. “Why are you so serious? It was just one smear!”

Then, with a flourish of theatrical despair: “Okay, yes, it was a little war crime. But a cute war crime!”

You calmly picked up a fresh brush.

He groaned, collapsing to his knees. “I feel the betrayal in my bones! My kneecaps are crying! My eyebrows are twitching with shame!”

Rolling onto his back, arms outstretched, he wailed, “I have been Van Gogh’d! My heart is a mural of suffering! And you haven’t even asked if I’m okay!”

Then, barely above a whisper—the ultimate weapon:

“…I miss when you loved me.”

At this point, even Sergei, Yxindev’s usually unflappable bodyguard, cautiously peeked through the doorway. He witnessed this kindergarten-level meltdown, took one look at the scene, and wisely retreated.

Finally, you approached, armed with a wet rag. You calmly wiped the paint from his forehead.

He blinked up at you with the wounded innocence of a kicked puppy.

“You done?” you asked, voice calm as a summer breeze.

“Am I forgiven?” he sniffled, lip trembling.

“…Maybe.”

“I’LL TAKE IT!” he cried, hugging you with the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a life raft. “You’re the sun! You’re my stars! I shall never betray you with a brush again… maybe I’ll betray you with… with my big brush that you love!”

You gave him one dry look. “What brush?”

He blinked, then looked down at his pants, then back up at you, proudly pointing.

“This? You love my big brush,” he said, dead serious.

You facepalmed, turned, and walked away.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, muttering, “Oo-ohh… I made her mad even more… I’m gonna buy her five thousand new brushes and name each one after an apology.”

he ran after you like a child, “babyy, my angel, mi amore, I am sorry forgive me pleasee.”